


A Token of My Affection

by SassAsAFreeAction



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: After the church scene, Angel Crowley, Azirafell makes bird noises when he's flustered, Aziraphale's ring, Crowley is the archangel Raphael, Crowley thinks it's okay to sleep for 80 years, Deflecting our feelings instead of addressing them, Demon Aziraphale, Demons can sense any of the seven deadly sins, M/M, Reversed Omens AU, Role Reversal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-05
Updated: 2019-10-05
Packaged: 2020-11-23 07:42:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20888552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SassAsAFreeAction/pseuds/SassAsAFreeAction
Summary: As a magpie, Azirafell has always hoarded some interesting trinkets, which is why Crowley is so surprised when he tries to give away one he's had since the beginning of time.





	A Token of My Affection

The first trinket the magpie had ever acquired was one he had stolen from Heaven. When he had been a dutiful sheep, the ring on his pinky had been the subtle bit of gold that marked him for what he was. After he had walked backwards into Hell though, it had become a meaningless token that had tarnished after a dip in the boiling pits of sulfur. Still, Azirafell wore it for the longest time as a reminder of what he had turned his back on.

When he encountered the demon on the wall, Crowley’s eyes had been immediately drawn to the ring, partially because the demon was busy fidgeting with it for some of their conversation as though contemplating the weight it carried and partially because he recognized the heavenly insignia on it. Had he not been so focused on hiding his identity and trying not to rise to Azirafell’s goading remarks, he might have asked about it. Instead, he ended up having to confess about how he’d given away a flaming sword.

After that, there were plenty of times he could have asked about the ring’s significance, could have asked why a demon was holding onto something that had obviously once been holy. At some point, he had started to brush it off as just another thing Azirafell had decided to hoard. Besides, the ring was frequently how he gauged the demon’s comfort level. He really only played with it when he was nervous or upset about something. If Crowley mentioned it, there was a strong possibility that Azirafell would stop wearing it, which was the last thing he wanted.

Crowley vaguely remembered a nervous Principality with a strained smile and folded hands. He saw that same angel represented any time Azirafell got flustered and couldn’t figure out what to do with his hands or when he came back after a particularly stressful interaction with the Downstairs’ office. He still fell into that old habit then, folding his hands in front of him, one hand clutching tightly to the other. Crowley didn’t bring that up either. He knew Azirafell was happy with the current status quo and quite frankly, he was too. He could only imagine how caged up his gorgeous magpie might have been if he still served Heaven, if he didn’t put his own happiness first. There was no way Azirafell would have approached him so brazenly if they were still angels, especially not if Azirafell - Aziraphale then, the bastard had changed it just enough to spite God - knew who Crowley really was.

It startled the Archangel the day the demon handed the ring over to him. They were in the back of the pawnshop, lounging on some of the furniture that was officially Azirafell’s now that the owners were long dead. He’d been collecting for some time after all. Crowley had come over to unwind after a visit from Gabriel and the others, which, of course, meant that they were drinking. When he slid off the ring and handed it over, Crowley wasn’t even one hundred percent sure what was happening.

“Why are you giving me this?” the angel asked, brows furled as he turned it over in his hands, looking it over properly for the first time. After examining it, he made to hand it back.

“Just take it,” Azirafell insisted, looking determined. He pushed Crowley’s hand away, forcing it closed around the token.

“You’ve had this as long as I’ve known you, fiend.” And despite the connotation of the word, it was impossibly soft now when it came out of his mouth, something that had become a term of endearment over the years rather than a reminder of his position in their relationship. “I’m not taking it unless you tell me why.”

“I had plans to get rid of it. I’ve always been more of a silver person.” He waved a dismissive hand. “If you don’t want it, I’ll just set it out on display with everything else.” This was a lie. Even if Azirafell was in the habit of parting with the objects that ended up in his shop (which he _absolutely_ wasn't), the ring was either leaving with Crowley or it wasn’t leaving at all.

“No!” Crowley shouted, holding it close to himself. He winced, realizing how loud he had been. “It’s fine. I’ll take it off your hands.”

Azirafell lifted his hands up, shrugging. “Fine with me.” He was smirking though, obviously plotting something. It was a little concerning, or at least it would have been if Crowley hadn’t felt that candle flicker of warmth coming from him. His alcohol fuzzy brain failed to put two and two together. That and he was too busy being so immensely pleased to have gotten something valuable - no, _ sentimental _ \- off his demon.

By the end of the night, Crowley had slid it onto his own pinkie finger. As time went on though, he found that it was impractical to wear the ring when he was working in the garden. It eventually got its own chain around his neck that he kept tucked under his clothes, close to his heart.

~~~London, 1941~~~

Crowley had not dared to hope that he might see Azirafell before the end of the millennia, so when he showed up within a hundred years of their last argument, he saw it as a miracle. The fact that he had swooped in to save him without hesitation was nothing short of a blessing, perhaps from the Almighty herself, but he wasn’t about to cross his fingers on that subject.

His rescue hadn’t come without consequence, or at least Crowley had thought so up until Azirafell had handed him his old leather bound journal full of ancient remedies and his own musings on a mixture that might actually result in eternal youth. (He hadn’t been able to try it personally, he was immortal so who knew if it actually worked, but it had been an excellent bargaining chip.) He flipped through it absently before looking up at Azirafell in stunned silence. The demon lingered in the wreckage of the church as though confirming that he had grabbed what he needed to before turning around, coat fanning out behind him. As dramatic as that was, he couldn’t walk away tall and proud with the bottom of his feet burned so horribly. His walk was just as awkward as it had been in the church as he tried to limp with both his feet back to his shop.

“Azirafell,” Crowley called after him. The demon paused and then after a long moment, he glanced over his shoulder. “Lift home?”

Azirafell sighed in relief. “I’m so glad you asked.” He hobbled back over to him then, following the angel to a white Bentley. He admired it for a moment, not at all surprised that automobiles had appealed to Crowley, (he always had been up on fashion trends and technologies) enough that he would go out and buy one. Azirafell couldn’t have been more thankful than he was in that moment. He opened the door and flopped into the passenger seat with a soft groan. He wasn’t as spry as he used to be...

Before he had a chance to close the door, Crowley was in his space, kneeling down beside him. “Let me see your feet,” he requested softly, gesturing for Azirafell to turn toward him.

Azirafell swung his feet out and faced him. Crowley carefully lifted his right foot, looking over the damage. The holy energy from the consecrated ground had burned right through his black oxfords, melting off some of the bottoms. Crowley gnawed at his lip, a wave of guilt rushing over him. He knew he was going to have to remove the shoe, but he prayed it hadn’t fused to the skin at all. Aziraphale hissed as his shoe was pried from his foot. His skin, where it was visible, was tender, red, and blistered. Crowley tilted his foot this way and that, trying to see the full extent of the injury. “Azirafell...” he murmured with a shake of his head.

“It will be fine. No sense in-” He bit off on that comment as Crowley pulled at the shoe on the other foot.

For a long time, Crowley looked over the other foot, debating to himself how he should proceed. While it would scar, it was likely the demon would heal perfectly fine on his own. Consecrated ground wasn’t nearly as bad as holy water or an angel’s blade. The problem was that the demon had gotten the injuries while trying to save him. Even if it might make him suspicious, Crowley felt obligated to heal him.

“Brace yourself,” he warned. Azirafell opened his mouth, probably to ask why or maybe even to retort, but instead, he pitched forward, with a shout at the sting that shot up his leg. The skin was reforming, forced to accelerate its healing process. Azirafell was clutching at the upholstery, his fingers and nails lengthening resembling something closer to claws without his permission. Crowley continued to smooth his hand over his foot, a soft light coming from his hand. The energy from it however was something raw, strong - certainly more than a simple principality should have been able to give off. It was undeniably still holy, leaving behind a tingling sensation that didn’t leave either of his feet even after Crowley had pulled back. Once he had relaxed enough, restored his hands so that they were back to their unimposing well-manicured appearance, he lifted his foot and flexed his toes, making sure that they still separated properly.

There was a long silence in which Azirafell continued to move his feet in quiet wonder. He was putting more and more pieces together, starting to give more credit to the hunch he had about his angel. When their eyes met though, he lowered his foot. “Thank you...” he murmured sheepishly, eyes darting away.

Crowley gave his knee a pat. “Let’s get you home.”

He stood up then, coming around to the driver’s side. When the engine roared to life, a bit of slow jazz rumbled from the speaker in a way that implied that the car didn’t actually know how to feel about it. The volume was right, but the sound was wrong. Crowley still hadn’t discovered an artist that he felt understood him, and he assumed that the Bentley, being owned by an occult creature such as himself, had picked up on that and was reacting accordingly.

They weren’t too far from the shop, and driving more like a creature of hell, Crowley made great time. Azirafell bit down on his tongue, keeping all of his complaints to himself since the angel was doing him a favor. Well, normally that wouldn’t stop him, but he wasn’t exactly keen on having another argument with the angel anytime soon, not when the other one was still so fresh. They didn’t do apologies though.

Once they arrived, the two of them sat in a long silence. Crowley glanced out the window, looking at the door to the shop. It hadn’t changed at all since the last time he was there. Next to him, Azirafell opened and closed his mouth, trying to find the right words. He was normally so quick, witty, and charming, but now all of that was failing him. Finally, he cleared his throat. “Could I... tempt you to a drink?” he asked.

Crowley’s head snapped his head over to look at him. His eyes flickered down to Azirafell’s hands out of habit only for him to realize that the ring he was looking for was on a chain around his own neck. He looked him in the eye for a moment. Azirafell was nervous, understandably so, but there was also that tiny bit of hope in the way he tried to smile, assuming that there was still a chance he could convince him. The redhead turned the key and pulled it out of the ignition. “I can stay for a few,” he agreed softly.

A grin. “Excellent.”

It was a long time ago that Crowley decided he should always take a pause outside of the pawnshop before actually entering it. The demon had an enormous hoard in his pawnshop, one that he guarded like an angry dragon. His greed wasn’t what bothered the angel though. No, a demon embracing one of the seven deadly was natural. What struck him as unnatural was the love that practically poured from the building. It was overwhelming, palpable. Azirafell specifically liked objects that were sentimental, had explained that to him ages ago. Crowley had grown use to it, but always gave himself a chance to mentally prepare before crossing the threshold.

Azirafell had already gone inside. He bustled around, weaving out and around the various displays to the back room. He was going off about something. Crowley caught the name of a wine and nodded. What they were drinking didn’t matter to him in the slightest as long as the company was good.

While Azirafell rummaged in the liquor cabinet, Crowley flopped down on the couch, sprawling his long legs across all of the cushions. He knew the blonde would take his usual spot in the chair across from him.

“Ah-hah!” The right bottle of red wine was pulled from the cabinet and shown off for a moment before Azirafell grabbed two glasses. He filled them both up before coming over to join Crowley. He set his glass on the table beside him before sitting neatly down.

Lifting his glass, Crowley stared at the contents and then swirled the liquid inside. It took a long time for either of them to speak. Neither of them sure what to say after all this time. Sure, they had gone for much longer intervals without seeing each other in the past, but their relationship had definitely changed over the years. Their meetings were less happenstance, and more a desire in both of them to see one another.

Azirafell loved to ask questions, loved the pursuit of knowledge while Crowley had a hidden streak of curiousness to him, and at this moment, both of them had a strong desire to reconcile and go back to the way things had been before anyone had said anything about Hellfire. “What have you been up to?” they said, simultaneously.

Crowley waved a hand, deferring to the demon to either ask the question again or to answer it. He swiped his tongue across one of his sharp canines in thought. “I finally decided to take up dancing.” He had said about it constantly to Crowley throughout the years about how it was a shame that no one on either side knew how to, especially when humans had always made it look so fun.

“I found this darling style called the Gavotte in a gentleman’s club down in Portland Place. Oh, it was a lovely time.” His eyes rolled up excitedly on the word lovely and then back down. Azirafell took a long sip from his glass then, wanting it before he started to reminisce too hard.

“I made a few friends while I was there.”

Then Crowley threw his glass back, practically chugging what was left in his glass because he absolutely hated the way the word friend tumbled from his mouth.

“Including this charming young writer.”

Crowley refilled his glass.

“He was kind enough to gift me a few of his works, signed and all.”

Azirafell let out a dreamy sigh that then turned into a frown before he looked down at his own glass. It was neither empty nor full, not getting him drunk or about to get him drunk, which meant he wasn’t happy. He downed what was left before snagging the bottle off Crowley. “What about you?” he asked as the liquid poured in to the rim.

Crowley pulled himself away from his glass, the one that had immediately gone to his mouth when he had assumed that Azirafell was going to tell him more about this charming young writer. A bit of envy twisted in his gut, and he hated himself for it. He couldn’t be upset that Azirafell had found a way to entertain himself while he was away not when the truth was that - “I slept.”

Azirafell picked up on that spark, something in him telling him that if he were human, Crowley would have been ripe for a temptation. His brows furled together as he found himself more distracted by that answer than the possibility that Crowley could have been jealous of his dear Oscar. “Anything else?”

“Nope,” he made sure to give the p and obnoxious pop. There wasn’t much point in lying to him after all. He hid his shame and embarrassment behind more wine.

“Anthony, you’re trying to get me to believe that you slept for nearly eighty years?” he was practically squawking out his disbelief.

“Yep,” came the next popping answer. He was trying to be casual about it because even after the two and a half glasses of wine that he’d made it through (and Azirafell had enormous glasses for some reason) he didn’t want the embarrassment that would come with explaining why.

The demon chewed on that for awhile. He drank wine, finished his glass, went looking for a new bottle - left Crowley to squirm. He uncorked the bottle and handed it over to Crowley to have the first sip. “_Why_?” He flopped onto the little bit of couch left.

Crowley sat up some, giving Azirafell more space. When he went to move his legs though, he found a hand on his ankle, pulling his foot to rest in his lap. He snatched up the bottle and took a deep gulp. Good Lord, what was happening? This was quickly aimed to spiral. He handed the bottle back over, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Why’d you come and save me?” he asked.

He felt awful for doing it, but if he threw Azirafell off guard and distracted him, he wouldn’t have to confess about how he couldn’t handle the thought that the demon could still be upset with him or how there might have been a grain of truth in the claim that his asking for Hellfire was a suicide pill. He hadn’t been lying when he said he wanted it for assurance. If another angel came looking for him, he would use it to dispose of them, but if he finally reached that day when he did feel like Heaven was too suffocating, it was there for that too.

Azirafell gawked at him, and then chittered anxiously. “What was I supposed to do? Just let them discorporate you?” He was trying to deflect now too.

“How’d you even know I was there in the first place?” Crowley reached out, poking his stomach lightly with his foot.

A huff and then a pause while he put his mouth to the bottle. A bit of wine slipped past the corner of his mouth, but he stopped drinking, swiping it up with his tongue. He sighed then, head rolling before he pointed up to the ceiling. “A little birdie told me.”

“What?” Blatant disbelief.

“Birds! I use the birds around London as my eyes and ears. They keep an eye on any sort of trouble going on in the area. A lot of them happen to like to nest in the steeples.” He didn’t admit though that he had a group specifically keeping an eye out for Crowley at any given time or that they weren’t the greatest with directions. It had taken him a little more than just the help of a few of the more intelligent breeds to make his way to that church to save him.

Crowley knew that admittedly, he should have been more upset that Azirafell was probably using a few of those sets of eyes to keep tabs on him, but he was far from it. Something in him coiled, undeniably pleased that the demon cared about him enough to go out of his way. The envy from before changed, morphing into something no less sinful. Perhaps he wasn’t coveting something that wasn’t his, perhaps he was just greedy when it came to his attention. “You’ve been using birds to follow me around London?” he asked, breathless, somewhere between awed and laughing.

Azirafell misread that bit of breath. He threw his hands up. “Alright, yes, I have - for years, but...” He bit down on his lip, almost as though he were trying to stop himself from speaking further. Unfortunately for him, he was a demon that still had a small shred of a conscience. “That’s... that’s not the only thing...” he murmured, eyes darting away. “I... the ring that I gave you.”

Crowley tugged on the metal chain around his neck, pulling out the tattered metal ring that he had given him ages ago. He held it up, brushing the tips of his fingers over it. “What about it, fiend?” he pressed softly.

A flood of warmth rushed through Azirafell at the sight of the ring. Crowley recognized what it was, feeling it second hand from the cushion next to him. Love - he was so happy to see he still had it, but Crowley had no idea why.

"I uh... imp..." Bugger, what was that word. Azirafell was starting to reach the point where all his usual eloquence left him. The demon huffed his frustration. "There's a bit of me to it... in it? I've marked it, that's what I'm saying. It's a lot easier than stretching out my senses in the hopes that I'll feel your Grace. Gives me more of an exact location rather than a vague one." All he really had to do was focus on that other bit of himself and he would be there.

Crowley stopped, finger resting on the insignia. His eyes shot up to Azirafell, wide, but then he had grinned. All this time, he had literally been carrying around a bit of him in his _possession_. He _owned_ a small piece of the demon. Reaching back, Crowley undid the clasp and then slid off the ring just so he could put it on his pinkie again. Azirafell preened to see the angel - his angel - display the gift so openly now that he knew what it was. As happy as he was, Crowley found that he couldn’t just let it go, he had to know more. “Why’d you even give it to me in the first place?”

The sinful mixture that sat there on the surface - pride, lust, greed, gluttoney - simmered down to another recognizable flutter of affection at the question. Azirafell adored it when Crowley was just as willing as he was to ask _why_. “Well... after the Bastille,” which he wasn’t in the mood to confess that he’d completely set up with the purpose of getting Crowley to see and rescue him, “I thought I should put myself in a better position to find you if something came up. Call it returning the favor one day.”

Crowley nodded thoughtfully. He remembered that day clearly. Heaven had been greatly concerned about what was happening in the Bastille and the whole creation of the guillotine. Sure, sometimes the corrupt needed to meet their punishment, but Heaven preferred when it was divine. They sent him to go see what all the hubbub was about. Then he heard rumors of an Englishman to be executed - which was so rare and exciting to the people gathered that day to watch heads roll. Someone had casually asked what the Englishman looked like, presumably so they’d know when it was him getting his head cutoff. He’d heard something about a portly (an unfair description in his opinion, Azirafell was chubby at worst and even then, the amount of squish was perfect for him) man in blue who supposedly had demonic looking eyes, dual pupils in each eye specifically. There was no one else it could have been.

“How do you know when I’m actually in trouble and not just stressed about a customer or something? I don’t assume the birds know the difference.”

Azirafell sighed. “That part is tricky. Sometimes I show up just in case - slip out before you even realize I was there. The extra eyes help me weed out trouble from mild distress, usually. They aren’t always the best at describing things though. When all else fails, I play it off like I just happened to be in the area.”

Crowley hummed thoughtfully, mulling all of that over. He couldn’t think of anything else to ask at the moment. Sitting back up, he took a sip of the wine before handing it over and curling up with his head in the demon’s lap instead. Azirafell tensed for a moment, but ultimately relaxed, combing a hand through his hair that was still cut as short as it had been last time. He would expect that after he had slept that long that it would be long again, but evidently it wasn’t. For that, he was a little sad.

“Thanks, Magpie,” he murmured quietly, looking up at him and smiling, one of those rare and bright ones that made his cheeks dimple.

Azirafell chittered again, much louder than before. It was exceedingly rare for Crowley to get him to do it twice in one sitting. “Don’t call me that,” he hissed even though it was undeniably a true statement. He hadn’t taken fiend well the first time either, but Crowley swore he was blushing. The angel laughed.

One day, he would find a better way to repay the demon than just a quiet thank you in his back room. If he was feeling particularly bold, it might even be a ring of his own, but for now, he took what affection he could get, leaning into his touch and dozing off, a sweet smile still on his face.

**Author's Note:**

> This work was inspired by the Reversed Omens created by Speremint. You can find it [here.](https://speremint.tumblr.com/post/186574829700/finally-finally-done-making-these-refs-my) Someone dragged me into a roleplay for it, and I've been hooked on them ever since. Speaking of, I'd like to thank said person for letting me take a few moments from our roleplays and cramming them in here since that was where I came up with the idea for the ring in the first place.


End file.
